Libido: Fiction: Jurgen's Tale
Friday Night Bedtime Story, December 29. Print me out... take me to bed!
Jurgen’s Tale

By Sophie DuChien

Jurgen sat across the sun porch in a silk paisley robe, champagne in his left hand, a kif-laced cigaret in his right, his legs sprawled across the arm of the loveseat where he lay. The legs sticking out were firm and tan in the rich afternoon light. A stream of bright sun lit the wine colored paisleys across his chest.

"I’ve never told anyone this," he said finally, his face shining through a placid, glassy-eyed smile. "I was 14, visiting my 16-year-old cousin near Dijon. He wasn’t my real cousin, but our parents encouraged us to pretend because they were close. Michel and I went on a picnic to a swimming place he knew in a tributary to the Loire. We drank a sauterne he brought and ate apples and grapes. I remember laughing a great deal. He was terribly funny, telling me stories about French girls he had kissed, and how far they would let him go, how much of them he could touch.

"The day was warm, and Michel said we should swim before we drank too much. We pulled off our clothes and jumped into the cool pool at the bend in the stream. We splashed and wrestled in the water as we had done every time we had gone swimming.

"The only thing different that day was that Michel and I were alone. He had brought me, he explained, to his special swimming hole, a place he showed only to his best friends.

"And it was a lovely place. A bend in a slow, deep channel lined with trees, and with strong sunlight most of the afternoon on the big, flat rock at the edge of the water. Cattle grazed in the meadow around us. A July breeze rustled the leaves above every now and again, breaking up the buzzing of flies and bees. We swam up the river and then floated back to where we had begun.

"When we came out of the water we flung ourselves onto our clothes spread on the rock. Michel stood again to fish out the bottle, which he had wedged behind a rock and left to cool in the water. He bent back to turn the bottle upside down into his mouth. And I can still picture him well, standing there up to his thighs in the water, head back, brown, curly, wet hair dangling off his neck. He had more pubic hair than I.

"'I’ve got something to show you,’ he said, ‘something I bet you have never seen.’

"From a schoolbook he pulled a packet of photographs, then knelt next to me, dripping onto my legs. The photos were terrible quality, grainy 5 x 7s. But he was right, I’d never seen anything like them.

"In the first, a traditionally dressed Algerian woman was on her knees beside a standing, dark European woman who was dressed in an old fashioned brassiere and those big, old-fashioned panties. Her outstretched arms appeared to be held by someone or something out of the frame. She had a very strange look on her face. It wasn’t fear, but it was animalistic in a way that made my groin tingle.

"In the next picture the Algerian woman was hauling down the other woman’s panties. Her pubic bush was clearly visible. I had never seen a grown woman’s bush and my little penis went rigid. I didn’t want it to, of course, and I was terribly embarrassed—on the verge of trembling, really. But I also could not pull my eyes away from the photos.

"In the third, the European woman was leaning very far back with her eyes closed. Her bra was open and two hands had come from somewhere behind her to cup her large breasts from underneath. The panties were gone, and the woman was holding her legs very far apart. The Algerian woman, still squatting, had her hand between the European woman’s legs.

"'You like these, don’t you?’ Michel asked sardonically. I blushed even brighter red, and turned away from him, my hard young thing pointing so straight that I couldn’t have lain on my stomach if I had wanted to. I tried to cover myself, awkwardly.

"'It’s OK,’ he said. ‘I get that way from these, too. Look.’

"I turned my head, and my young heart leaped into my mouth. His penis, long, narrow and blue—blue and red—stood out from where he sat. That’s why I look at them. That’s why I’m showing them to you. Look at them.’

"I took the photographs in my trembling hands. . ."

Jurgen trailed off. His cross-eyed gaze drifted from the smoking cigaret to Maria. He flicked the ash into the air with a flourish, smiled and handed her the short end of it. She inhaled deeply, and leaned back into the sofa we shared. She handed it to me. I put it to my lips and she turned back to Jurgen. "Don’t stop now. What happened next?" she said huskily.

I sat back thinking to myself, "What am I doing here? Are we being seduced by this German?" Yet I was also very intrigued by this blond sensualist. He was just as bad and charming as Maria had said. We had been talking pleasantly about where we each had grown up, the similarities of the conventions of our romances when, into the third glass of champagne, Jurgen began his tale. I was actually getting turned on by it. He knew what he was doing, and so did we, but it was irresistible.

Jurgen settled further into his loveseat, shifting his legs when his robe fell open up to his hip. As he pulled it back together, he caught me watching his hand. I blushed.

"I remember this as if it were yesterday," Jurgen said. "In the next picture the Algerian woman’s head had moved to the other woman’s crotch. I could see her mouth disappearing into the other’s pubic patch. It was more than my young system could handle. I had my first orgasm simply from looking. I wasn’t even touching myself. I just shot off into the air like warm champagne. It was wonderful, wonderful.

"And apparently my orgasm sent Michel over the edge. Lying back in a daze, I watched him slide his hands—both of them— up and down his shaft, humping his fists until he exploded into the river and across the rock next to me. Then he fell across me and we lay still.

"We rested for perhaps 15 minutes, neither really wanting to move. Then he urged me to finish looking at the pictures. I did, and naturally, I got another hard on. I wanted to put my hands on myself, too, but I was too embarrassed. And then the most remarkable thing happened. Michel put his mouth on me.

"It was electric. I exploded into instant orgasm, and before I could go soft, I became excited all over again."

At that pause in Jurgen’s lurid little story, I became conscious of Maria’s breathing next to me. It was sexually charged breathing. To my utter disbelief, she had her hand inside her blouse and was very obviously massaging her breast.

She caught me staring, and shot me a look I’ll never forget. I felt myself being sucked into something I was not certain I was ready for, but at the same time I didn’t want it to stop. I was tremendously aroused. I could feel myself getting wet as I watched Maria. It was so decadent.

I lit and puffed on the nub of kif again, hoping to break the tension in the air and between my legs. I wasn’t certain of what was happening in front of me. Or why.

"And what happened to the Algerian woman?" Maria asked thickly.

"In the next to last photo she had a veil over her face, but was naked from the waist down. Her shaved pussy—that’s the Arab fashion—was poised directly over the European woman’s tongue. That photo gave me yet another erection on my initiation day, because above the veil, in her eyes, you could see her ecstasy."

Jurgen fell silent. He laughed shyly. "I have to confess, telling you both my little secret has aroused me this afternoon almost as much as being there in the first place. But I am also a little embarrassed. I have told you so much, while I know nothing of you two. Nothing so revealing. Please tell me something a little dangerous about yourselves."

He said that looking directly at me. His eyes were so hungry that I felt my resistance melt. But it was Maria who got up, walked over to him, and without warning pulled his robe open.

"I want to see you hard," she said. He was, rising from half mast against his thigh to point straight up from a thick, darker blond patch than the hair on his head.

Maria quickly pulled off her shorts and panties. "I need it now. Feel how wet I am."

And right in front of me, the quiet girl from the country climbed on his lap, took hold of his erection and after rubbing herself with him, ever so slowly squatted on it. She wasn’t even quiet about it.

In fact, her animal noises were more than I could bear. I pulled my legs up, spreading them so I could reach up the leg of my shorts and began stroking myself like a schoolgirl in the bathroom. I found myself wanting to reach out and stroke Maria’s tight, round little butt. Jurgen was beaming at me with the sexiest little smile from under her arm. Then she began coming in whoops, and I started coming and coming listening to her. Before it ended, we all wound up coming together in a groaning pile of hugging bodies.

That was the first of many tender evenings for the three of us. We became well known around town that summer as the three musketeers. Jurgen was a real charmer. But as you may also have guessed, he was a very strange one, too. He liked to sit naked between us, jerking himself off while we, usually fully clothed, kissed his neck, licked his ears and pinched his nipples.

But then I especially liked it when he would hold me from behind, kissing my neck and pulling my nipples while Maria on her knees licked me. And I loved watching them fuck.

To this day, 20 years later, the remembrance of those afternoons with Jurgen whets my appetite for that same kind of excitement. I wish I could feel it again, so fresh and so intense. Many’s the time I’ve lain in the solarium in the morning ever so gently tickling myself and remembering how sweet and hot it was.